Social Butterfly at the Cabin

My son loves connecting with our cabin neighbors.

By Christy Heitger-Ewing Every year, I enjoy watching the beautiful array of colorful butterflies that flutter around the cabin property. Last summer, however, a new kind of butterfly flit about our cove – a social one named Trevyn. Though my high-energy kindergartener was often gregarious back home, there was something about the cabin that amped up his outgoing demeanor a notch more. It was behavior I couldn’t really identify with, because I was painfully shy as a kid. If I waved to a neighbor, it was with my eyes averted and my chin touching my chest. Trevyn, on the other hand, loved to look everyone squarely in the eye and greet them with a firm handshake and a friendly “hello.” So, last year when someone new moved into our cove, Trevyn took notice. He and I were down at the lake when he saw the new neighbor, Mr. Kosovec, docking his boat after fishing. Trev set off in a flash, screaming, “Be right back, Mommy!” “Hold up!” I yelled. But he was already sprinting down the shoreline. Moments later, he was standing on Mr. Kosovec’s dock, studying the string of shiny walleye. After a few minutes, Trevyn dashed back to our property. Breathless, he asked, “May I watch Mr. Kos-kach-uh … that new neighbor guy … clean his fish?” “Are you sure you want to do that?” I asked, fully aware that my son detested the sight of blood. “It’s a messy process.” “Yes!” Trevyn insisted, jumping up and down. “Okay, then,” I agreed, and off he flew like a seasoned racehorse. When he returned home, Trevyn was brimming with questions about some of our other cabin neighbors. Not surprisingly, most of the questions centered on food. “When are we gonna go to the Nussers’ for s’mores?” he asked. “Mr. Nusser roasts the marshmallows just right. And we should go to the Petersons’ for root beer floats. I like how Mr. Peterson keeps refilling my glass with ice cream as I drink.” Before I could respond, Trev piped up, “Also, I wanna go play with the Fergus’ dog, Odin, because he can do this cool trick where he holds a treat on the tip of his nose for, like, 10 seconds, and then he flips the treat up in the air and into his mouth.” Without taking a breath, Trevyn continued. “Oh, and Jesse invited me to paddleboat with him. And I wanna go hug Kylie because she’s leaving tomorrow.” “Okay, slow down,” I said. “One thing – one neighbor – at a time.” Even though he was firing with all cylinders, I loved that my boy was so fond of our cabin neighbors. “Hey, I almost forgot. How was the fish cleaning?” I asked. Trevyn crinkled up his nose and leaned in close to me. “I tell you what,” he whispered. “For getting something clean, that was awfully bloody. But,” he said, his voice chipper and his eyes bright, “Mr. Kos-ocho-uh … the fish dude … said he’ll take me with him next time he goes out.” For over 30 years, I had appreciated all of the awesome perks that go along with cabin ownership, and building and sustaining decades-long friendships certainly topped the list. Now my young son was learning the joy of spreading his interactive wings, practicing the old-fashioned art of chit-chat and even finding the guts to sit and watch, well, guts. “He did warn me,” Trev added, “that if I catch a fish to get a good grip because they can slip right out of your hands.” “That’s okay,” I said. “That’s called catch-and-release.” “Ketchup what?” Trevyn asked. “Catch. And. Release,” I articulated. “It’s where you throw the fish back into the lake after reeling it in.” “So, does that mean you skip the bloody part?” I nodded. “That’s my kind of fishin’!” Trevyn announced with a grin. And off he ran to see a dog about a nose trick.